Every time I watch Charon at the helm, her gloved hands gripping the wheel of Mephistopheles with effortless control, I can't help but shiver at the thought of those same hands on me. The way her eyes, sharp and unwavering, sends a thrill down my spine—I want that gaze pinned on me, dissecting me, devouring me. I crave the cold press of her fingers against my skin, the teasing restraint of her strength as she holds me still, forcing me to surrender to the rhythm she dictates. I want to hear that rare chuckle against my ear, low and knowing, as she reminds me just how deep my devotion runs. Charon isn’t just my wife—she’s a force of nature, and all I want is to be caught in the storm of her.